Donnel's Promise

by Mackenzie, Anna

  The path Fenn led them from the docks was as dog-legged as the course she had sailed across the lake. Risha soon became lost in the tangle of streets, but knew Olli’s house as soon as she saw it. How not, when the grief she’d brought to his door still sat like a rock in her chest?

  The man who answered their knock was just as she remembered, stocky and strong, his face seamed and darkened to a texture of ill-kept leather. His greeting was warm. ‘Come in. We weren’t sure when to expect you. Lillet is out but she won’t be long.’

  He led them into a kitchen Risha remembered too well. Her eyes were drawn to the table. Olli’s hand closed on her shoulder. ‘None of that now.’

  She couldn’t help herself. Her eyes scoured the scrubbed wood, memory placing Sulba upon it, Olli’s hands staunching blood from the wound he had earned saving her life.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ Olli said. ‘Sulba made a sacrifice he thought worthy.’

  ‘But shouldn’t have had to make.’

  ‘Pulling off scabs only worsens the scars.’

  ‘Sit,’ Fenn said briskly, and set the kettle to boil.

  ‘Any news from Fratton?’ Nolan asked.

  ‘As many rumours as you care to hear, half of them conflicting. It seems Muir had the insurgents isolated before Donnel arrived, which doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have welcomed a little help,’ Olli said. ‘Margetta will be running out of advisors, the rate they turn.’

  ‘What of my father?’

  ‘When we heard he’d crossed into Fratton, some were convinced he was riding against Caledon.’ A raw smile passed briefly across Olli’s face. ‘My guess would be that rumour started in the palace when someone found Quilec already hiding beneath his bed.’

  ‘But there’s been no word recently? From Barc, or—’

  ‘Barc would be unlikely to trouble me with his plans.’

  Olli had blamed the man, at least in part and perhaps rightly, for Sulba’s death, Risha recalled, though he had always been a friend to her. Without Barc’s help she would still be in Torfell.

  ‘You’ll see your father soon enough,’ Fenn said. ‘And before then he’ll have learnt from Gorth that you’re safe.’

  Though the woman’s words were designed to reassure, to Risha they somehow rang hollow. She placed her palm flat on the table, one finger tracing a path around a darkened knot in the wood.

  A day later they rode north. Nolan grimaced on sight of their mounts, designed for dependability rather than speed. ‘At least no one will suspect us of being deserters from the Havrean guard.’

  Fenn studied him, head tipped to the side. ‘No-account hirelings who have gulled a new widow and her daughter,’ she said, her wolfish grin making her look anything but gullible.

  ‘We really should have known better,’ Risha agreed, ‘given how disreputable they look.’

  Croft leant sideways to spit on the road. Nolan simply rubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw.

  By midday Risha was exhausted. She had known she’d find it hard, but it was all she could do to remain upright in her saddle. Nolan called a halt at the first hamlet they reached.

  ‘At this rate Webb will have given us up and ridden north before we reach Deeford,’ she complained.

  ‘Sleep,’ Fenn advised. ‘You’ll do better tomorrow.’

  It proved true. With a rest at midday she managed a full day’s ride, but was unable to hide how much it cost her come the evening.

  ‘It will be easier tomorrow,’ Nolan promised. ‘We should make Deeford by late morning.’

  The road, which ran roughly parallel to the river, held few travellers, and those they met offered no more than a cautious nod.

  ‘You can’t blame them,’ Croft muttered, as they passed a cart holding a family of silent, wide-eyed children perched among a towering jumble of possessions. ‘Too much uncertainty is no kind of life.’

  Risha began to wonder what the past year had been like for Margetta. ‘Has it been so bad?’

  Croft tossed his chin towards an oncoming trio pushing their belongings in a dusty handcart. ‘Looks that way.’

  At Deeford, Nolan settled them in one of three wayside taverns and went in search of Webb. While he was gone Risha slept, waking groggy and hot as the afternoon faded. The room was stuffy and still. She rolled onto her back. A fly buzzed.

  The buzzing was inside her head. She raised a hand to her temple. It was a throb, growing more forceful, but not exactly like pain, more a pressure, pushing inward. Or … outward.

  Nonno? She sent the questing thought and the buzzing receded. Then returned.

  Ciaran?

  She shook her head. It was nothing. Sitting up she looked around. She’d been so tired she’d collapsed onto the bed without even stopping to loosen her clothes. That was why she was hot. As she stood her vision swam, bees buzzing before her eyes, darting black and gold across the room. They weren’t bees, they were banners in Westlaw’s black and gold. The buzzing grew into cheering, hundreds of voices joined in a hoarse, rhythmic chant. Her head began to ache.

  There was a clatter of sound. Risha shrank away from it.

  ‘Risha! What’s happened? Are you all right?’ Fenn pulled her to her feet. Risha’s eyes focused slowly. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘No. I …’ She knew suddenly. ‘It was someone trying to find me. Not Nonno or Ciaran. Someone else. I’m … I’m not sure they mean me well.’

  Fenn led her to a chair and called Nolan.

  ‘You’re sure it wasn’t your illness?’ he asked. ‘When you were delirious …’

  ‘No. And anyway, the delirium is mixed with the visions somehow; that was how I saw Ciaran.’ She pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘This was worse, like someone trying to force their way in. Or — not that exactly. I can’t explain.’

  ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘there’s not much we can do, save not leaving you alone.’ He looked at Fenn. ‘We’ll ride on in the morning. Webb should have been here by now, but we can’t wait.’

  She had worried him, she knew. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He waved her apology aside. ‘Do you feel like eating? You look peaky.’

  ‘I feel peaky.’ Rallying, she smiled to please him. ‘I’m sure I could eat something.’

  She had to force herself; her stomach was unsettled and the cider Fenn gave her made her light-headed.

  That night Risha dreamt.

  The face that swam before her was swathed in shadow. The man — she thought it a man — stood at the centre of a stone cell encircled by narrow windows, each a pace from the last. As Risha watched, he began to walk from aperture to aperture. The floor of the cell was worn in a dark ring along his path. At the far side of the room he paused to stare out, her eyes following his, so that she saw a courtyard and surrounding wall with a banner of black and gold hanging limp from the gate. Beyond the wall a steep-sided valley stretched to a distant ridge of blue-grey mountains.

  He turned swiftly and they were face to face. His eyes, close to hers, were a bleak, cold grey, dark as Torfell stone.

  Beyond Deeford the country became broken and rough, more like the Otharn foothills than the downlands that edged the plains. Farmsteads huddled in sheltered hollows, their roofs weighted against winter winds. Even the river seemed to draw in on itself, burrowing down into the rock where it flowed fast and deep, the road following the line of escarpments above.

  ‘How do they manage to get their boats back upstream?’ Risha asked, thinking of the busy wharves at the river’s mouth.

  ‘It’s mostly one-way traffic. The barges that come down are sold for scrap when they reach Caledon. I’ve never run the Dee, but they say the El is tame by comparison.’

  They passed a tangle of trunks and branches that had become lodged, part-submerged, against the flow. ‘In the winter there are flash floods,’ Nolan said. ‘The debris builds into a temporary dam, then when it breaks it releases a torrent that sweeps everything before it. They try to clear them sometimes, before the water backs up, but it
’s a dangerous business. My mother had a brother who died that way.’

  Though it was warm, Risha shivered. There was a dull hum of pain behind her eyes. ‘How far are we from Fratton?’

  ‘Two days. The trees ahead mark Fratton’s border with Caledon.’

  She followed his pointing arm, to where a dark line of forest cloaked the distant hills, then turned her eyes north. ‘We’re not so far from Torfell.’

  In a few weeks, or a little longer, Marit’s traders would cross Lindfell Pass.

  As they crested a rise sheep scattered before them, but did not move far before again lowering their heads to graze. ‘Do you ever feel like your past is a story you heard told about someone else?’ Risha asked.

  Nolan flicked a fly from his thigh with a loop of rein. ‘Perhaps. The raw youth who joined the guard is a long time gone, and his ignorant blustering with him.’

  ‘But you’re glad you joined? I’ve never understood men’s enthusiasm for war.’

  ‘Not so much for war. It’s a career; mostly a fairly peaceful one.’

  ‘And when it isn’t?’

  He shrugged. ‘Then you find out if all the training has been effective. And whether you picked the right side.’

  Late the following day they crossed into Fratton and were engulfed by the shadowed aisles of Great Caledon Forest. The journey that Risha had made beyond Othbridge with Cantrel, Muir and Harl rose in her memory, and she found herself describing the eerie stillness of the Black Lake.

  ‘Trees once reigned supreme all the way from here to CaledonWater,’ Fenn said. ‘They still cloak the Otharn foothills end to end.’

  ‘Providing a haven for any number of bandits.’

  ‘Not so much bandits as those Somoran forced into banditry,’ Risha said, thinking of the hill people she had encouraged to settle in LeMarc.

  Nolan shrugged, leaving her to wonder whether he acknowledged the distinction.

  They found no inn to shelter at that night, and so camped beneath the trees.

  In the morning Croft found the tracks of a wild creature — perhaps the size of a mountain cat, though the print was different — around the perimeter of the camp.

  ‘That’s the last night we spend out,’ Nolan said, pushing them on through the morning.

  At midday they sat on a hill high above the brooding silence of FrattonWater. To their right the lake stretched a long arm to the south; north, at its nearer end, the road was a narrow glimmer between dark water and darker trees. Immediately below their viewpoint a cluster of dwellings and jetties hugged the shore. From the buildings smoke rose in tight strands to merge into a single low cloud that carried the scent of pine resin and hot iron.

  Risha stared across the lake to FrattonSeat. The castle stood solid and forbidding on a promontory, its walls seeming to rise directly from the water, the town spilling like rubble north and south along the shore. Doubts began to scribble through her belly. Would Donnel be pleased to see her? Might he judge her a fool for playing into Goltoy’s hands? She stiffened her spine. At least with the warning she brought she had a chance to redeem herself — and perhaps, as a father, he would be pleased to see her regardless.

  ‘Do we take the ferry or the road?’ Croft asked.

  ‘Let’s start with news.’ Nolan nudged his horse forward. ‘Would a disreputable hireling make enquiries on his employer’s behalf?’

  Fenn smiled thinly. ‘Only for his own advantage, given his employer supposedly grew up in FrattonSeat.’

  ‘We heard on the way up there were problems over yonder,’ Nolan said, stretching his vowels into a flat drawl. ‘I’ve a mind to leave her here and call the job done. She’s done nothing but complain the whole damn way.’

  ‘How far have you come?’ The innkeeper asked, in a neutral tone. Risha turned her head so as to seem to be gazing out the grimy window rather than listening to the conversation at the bar.

  ‘Saithe, and the sooner I’m back there the better. I like the sun on my skin.’ Nolan took a pull from his tankard. ‘Never been up this way before. Does the ferry save much time over the road?’

  ‘Half a day. But they don’t carry horses.’

  ‘I’ve told her she’d be as well selling them, but she says her husband wouldn’t have wanted it. Fat lot that matters, given he’s three weeks in the ground.’

  The innkeeper gave a non-committal lift of his chin.

  Nolan leant forward conspiratorially. ‘No truth in what they say about widows, at least not this one.’

  ‘Three weeks widowed, you say?’

  The censure in the man’s tone was clear, but Nolan affected not to hear it.

  ‘Aye. And the young one might as well be deaf and dumb for all the interest she shows.’

  Risha felt her cheeks redden. Through the window she could see Croft, one boot hitched on the horse trough, eyes scanning the settlement. Nolan slapped a tankard on the table, making her jump.

  ‘Cheer yourself on that then.’

  She blinked in surprise at his tone but he’d already turned back to the innkeeper. ‘You get good business here?’

  ‘Good enough.’

  The door opened to admit Fenn. She nodded politely to the man behind the bar then stared pointedly at Nolan. He jerked his thumb towards Risha. ‘She ain’t finished.’

  Risha pushed the tankard away from her and stood.

  Nolan rolled his eyes. ‘Shame to waste good ale.’ As he reached towards it, Fenn spoke sharply.

  ‘Criff can have it.’

  Nolan scowled. ‘Like I said: shame to waste it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d tell him.’

  Nolan sauntered out with a shrug.

  Fenn stretched a hand to Risha’s shoulder.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to see the back of that one, I’d warrant,’ the innkeeper offered quietly.

  Fenn’s mouth tightened. ‘Indeed. At least our other man is better. Is all well in FrattonSeat, sir? I haven’t had reliable news in some time. I’m not quite sure what we’re going to.’

  The man shrugged. ‘The latest has settled, if that’s what you’re meaning. How long for: now there’s a question.’

  The door opened and Croft entered with a deferential nod. ‘He said you wanted me?’

  Fenn waved towards the tankard, still standing on the table. ‘If you’d like some refreshment before we go on. Take your time. I’m in no great hurry to return to the saddle. Good day, sir,’ she added, nodding politely to the innkeeper.

  Nolan was waiting with the horses, and offered a shrug of apology in reply to the look Risha sent him.

  ‘You must have made a study of degenerate hirelings,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve known my share. The guard takes all sorts.’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t keep ones like that.’

  ‘Better in the guard than free to prey on widows and beautiful young women.’

  She blinked at the compliment, so casually delivered. Nolan offered a self-deprecating smile before turning to check her horse’s girth.

  When Croft appeared from the tavern he was grinning broadly. ‘Whatever it was you said, you certainly convinced him to take against you,’ he said, as he swung onto his horse. ‘He says to tell you that you’ll get a better price for your horses in FrattonSeat,’ he told Fenn, ‘and that you shouldn’t trust that — ah, something rather more specific than “disreputable” — gutter-crawler any further than you can kick him. Which he strongly advises you do.’

  ‘I trust the charade enabled you to learn more than that,’ Nolan said sourly.

  Croft tilted his head. ‘Lady Margetta is held in high regard. Her advisors are a barnyard of self-serving knaves; the chancellor and commander of the guard are constantly at one another’s throats — only partly because the commander hails from LeMarc rather than Fratton — and the latest uprising was nudged along by forces he wouldn’t be drawn into naming.’

  ‘And Donnel?’

  ‘Tolerated as the lady’s protector, but barely.’

 
Nolan sucked his teeth.

  ‘Our friend advises trusting no one you’ve known less than a decade, and only a quarter of them. If we’re looking for accommodation he suggests we might try The Red Door in Cobblers Lane. His sister and her husband run it. He said to say Bratho sent us … but under no circumstances should we take that bastard—’ he flicked a thumb at Nolan — ‘with us.’

  The Red Door

  The guard at the city’s outer gates eyed them with suspicion. ‘So what brings you to FrattonSeat? Most people are going rather than coming.’

  ‘My cousin has a job for me,’ Fenn said.

  ‘Where’s this cousin live?’

  ‘Cobblers Lane.’

  He hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘Oh aye. Cobbler are you?’

  ‘She has a tavern, The Red Door.’

  An older guard sauntered across. ‘I know it. Garv’s place.’ He eyed them thoughtfully. ‘Business is quiet these days. Wouldn’t have thought they’d be needing extra staff.’

  Fenn gave a tired smile. ‘She was thinking to help me out. I’m recently widowed.’

  The man flicked an assessing eye over Nolan and Croft. ‘Just the two of you staying on then?’

  ‘My daughter and myself, yes. Our escorts will be departing as soon as we’re settled.’

  ‘Long ride back to Saithe,’ Nolan said. ‘Horses’ll need a day or two’s rest.’

  ‘At your own expense.’ Fenn stiffened her spine and her tone. Nolan threw her a disgruntled look.

  The charade again proved successful in engaging sympathy, at least in the older man. ‘On you go then. Head for Ironmonger’s Gate in the mid-wall; it’s not far from there. And good luck to you.’

  The mid-wall, once the outer limit of the town, had over time grown buildings and lean-tos that almost completely disguised it. The gate itself had long since been removed, but the archway above was marked with the symbol of an anvil.

  ‘There’s something inauspicious about the place,’ Fenn said, as they passed beneath. ‘People keep their eyes to themselves — which doesn’t for one minute stop me feeling we’re being watched.’